


Nothing of the old heart remains

by mangacrack



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fallen Banners Story, Families of Choice, Fourth Age, Friendship/Love, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insecurity, M/M, Rebirth, Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-23 12:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17683811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangacrack/pseuds/mangacrack
Summary: In which Maeglin has too many issues, Celebrimbor is amazing and Curufin is surprisingly well-adjusted.





	Nothing of the old heart remains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [senalishia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/senalishia/gifts).



> Written for the Slashy Santa 2018/2019. I hope Senalishia will enjoy it.  
> Ecyanáro = Sharp Flame

 

He takes his first breath alone. No one but a single Maia of Lórien is there to welcome him, and the spirit only stays long enough to ensure that he does not get lost on his way out of Mandos. It takes a while until he gets used to being alive again. Thankfully Irmo allows the returned to tary in the gardens before and after their re-embodiment, it makes the adjustment period easier. Yet there's a lingering sense of caution, a small voice in his mind that warns him to be careful in this strange new world.

"That reaction is not very common," the Vala of Dreams explains. "I'm afraid it's a consequence of your skills. Not many have mastered magic and oswanë the way you do. It shall take time until you feel comfortable in here Aman."

"Thank you. I will take it slow. Farewell."

Since no one has been informed of his return, Maeglin takes the road towards the only person he longs to see right now.

 

-

 

The truth is that they never met in the flesh before. Their fëa briefly touched when Námo placed Celebrimbor in Maeglin's care. Over the ages the Vala of the Dead learned how to deal with traumatised souls and Maeglin was one of the few who understood Celebrimbor's pain without being immediate family.

His refusal to return to the living world led to Námo putting Maeglin in charge of the lost. It took centuries to get the hang of it, but helping others heal helped his own scars heal more effectively than heartfelt conversations with his numerous relatives. Not that Maeglin ever revealed his identity to them but rather stayed in the shadows.

Even now he travelled under a new name, one he had been given in Mandos. Though not everyone remembered the Halls, those who spent time with him before would at least not outright reject him.

Only Celebrimbor had he ever told of his past. Of his old name, his parentage, and how being dead had been a relief.

From ... everything. Not just the last awful year.

 

-

 

It is strange, travelling through Aman. Maeglin cannot remember ever living in such open space. Nan Elmoth was a forest full of dark magic and natural traps, not even the trees were friendly there. Its Lord, Eöl, became a lot like it in order not to be swallowed whole. Tumladen had been a bit bigger, vast enough to house thousands of Elves, but with the ban to go beyond its borders it quickly became tiny and suffocating.

The only time Maeglin encountered such a vast sky was when they fled from Nan Elmoth to Gondolin, but with the hurry his mother had been in they had not time to stop and enjoy it.

Out of habit, Maeglin travels at night.

It's early morning, when he reaches the town where the Fëanorians have settled. Those who followed the Sons of Fëanor in their lives were reluctant in returning to Tirion. Their Lords felt unwelcome there and seized the opportunity to build a new city.

On his journey Maeglin heard numerous names for it, various descriptions of what it looks like. In the end, nothing comes close. It's big without feeling crowded. There's even enough natural spaces along the boulevards and between the districts to satisfy the wilder hearts. Maeglin discovers tents near small lakes and houses of solid stone right next to them.

He's so distracted by looking at the city, its shape and all the crafts on display that he barely notices the people around him.

A soul-deep urge to connect with Celebrimbor is the only reason he does not sit down at a corner to feel the pulse of the city around him for the next few years.

 

-

 

Later Maeglin finally makes it to where Celebrimbor is supposed to live. He finds it disturbing how quickly he got his answers when he asked for directions. Also, no one stopped him to question his intentions after he explained where he was heading. Of course, he never mentions Gondolin or his parentage. He is not eager to find out how history paints him. Especially not after he has seen the response Turgon's name got in the Halls.

If people are this unhappy with his uncle, Maeglin does not wish to know what they would say to him.

The first surprise is the discovery that Celebrimbor does not live in a simple two-story house. The way the Fëanorian talked about Ost-in-Edhil he lived very modestly there, but in hindsight Maeglin guesses his loyal followers would never allow that to happen here. Hence him finding himself greeted by huge gates with a small park beyond. One path leads deeper into the grounds, another to a big house on the left.

Old instincts tell him that's where the forge will be. Should Celebrimbor not be at home, someone around here will know more.

An unidentified feeling pools in his stomach, insisting that he not leave until he has seen Celebrimbor. He's cautious, the same insistence led to his soured relationship with Turgon's daughter, but unlike Idril he met the Son of Curufin after his death. There were no expectations to meet, no images to be upheld.

Maeglin walks around the house, across a big yard, and the smell of fire surrounds him when he steps into a smaller building.

Scents wash over him. Worn leather, sweat, burning wood, oil and various metals fill the air, and with trembling hands Maeglin inhales them. He breathes deep, closing his eyes, and thinks nothing ever smelled as much like home as this. Perhaps returning to the world of the living had not been such a bad idea after all.

"I know that look," a voice greets him and startles Maeglin out of his revelation of being near a forge again. He spins around to meet an amused Elf with dark hair. The man is holding rolls of paper and quite a few other tools.

Since he drops everything on a nearby desk, he most be a frequent worker here.

"I apologize for intruding," Maeglin quickly apologizes.

Back in Gondolin he never looked kindly upon those who marched into his forges. This does not seem like a private one, more like a storage room and a workplace for drafts and experiments. Still, he does not wish to ruin everything from the start.

The Elf smiles. "I do not mind. As I said, I know the look. I saw it in the mirror for decades, it is a simple pleasure to return to a forge. A place, where you are allowed to create and pursue your interests, especially once you realize you no longer have to make weapons of war."

That's a thought that never crossed Maeglin's mind before. In Nan Elmoth he was busy learning the craft from his father, in Gondolin he finished his apprenticeship under Rog and then moved on to mining and fortifying Gondolin's defences. Once the quality of his weapons became public knowledge, he was busy with commissions.

Right now Maeglin would not know what to do with a drawing board if he was handed one.

"I admit I have not been back that long," he says. "Rather, I am here because I am looking for ... _Curufinwë?_ "

Maeglin pauses for he does not remember Celebrimbor's second name in Quenya. So far most people in the city he has spoken to have not acknowledged his accent, if they noticed one. Since he grew up learning both Sindarin as well as Quenya, he never bothered to ask Celebrimbor for other names when they meet in the halls. Mandos made translations unnecessary, speech was a matter of an open mind and heart. Not something you conveyed with words and letters.

"We have quite a collection of those," the Elf laughs. "Since no one calls my father that and we have never met before, I assume you wish to see my son."

 

-

 

It takes Maeglin a few moments to process his words. Curufin keeps the slightly evil laugh to himself. He has been told his new found humour can be off putting, but so far his family has not argued with its results.

Curufin thinks Maeglin looks quite young in a certain way, on the other hand he seems to be at war with himself. Something between panic, professional interest, and regret. A curious combination Curufin does not usually see in a smith.

"Yes, I am looking for Celebrimbor. I owe him a lot. He is the reason why I finally ... moved on, and I wish to thank him," Maeglin says, this time in Sindarin. From what Curufin can tell the accent is Beleriand based with no influence from Numenor or Westron. It gives him an idea where this young man comes from, though it is odd if he has been recently released from Mandos.

"He's outside cutting wood for the forge," Curufin answers. He stays his urge to find out who this Elf is.

But by now he has an astute sense for when a person is hostile or when he means well. If this man actually knows Telpe, then it can only be positive if they talk. His son still has trouble dealing with the consequences his death had in Eriador.

"Thank you," Maeglin says. His desire to meet Telperinquar is apparently greater than making polite conversation, though he stops for a moment to consider Curufin.

Now _that look_ is familiar. It's the point where people try to reconcile the Elf in front of them with the Kinslayer from the history books. Curufin waits until the strange Noldo has come to a decision.

The verdict takes him by surprise.

"Out of all the people you have been accused to have killed, my father was not among them. Though he would have deserved it the most. Had you freed the world from him when you had the chance, perhaps both of our lives would have been better."

Then Maeglin leaves and Curufin blinks before contemplating what just happened. It's not often a random visitor accuses him of not having done enough killing.

 

-

 

The first thing Maeglin notices is the _red hair._ He did not know Celebrimbor, grandson of Fëanor had red hair. Fëa in Mandos don't do hair colors.

Okay, no. The first thing he truly notices is the sweaty half naked body as the former Lord of Eregion works out his frustrations on the firewood. He is wearing clothes meant for forge work. Heavy leather that protects from the hot metal sparks of the forge. The top half has been thrown over a fence and as result Maeglin catches himself staring at muscles, tanned skin and a thousand other tiny details his mind cannot process right now.

 _Huh,_ his mind provides. _That looks nice._

If Maeglin had any idea what he wanted so say to Celebrimbor, it's gone right now. Not that he _had_ a plan. He blames both of his parents that he is not good at logic, common sense or setting realistic expectations. There is a reason why he refused to meet any of his immediate family in the Halls of Mandos and why it took three ages until he considered returning.

Since Maeglin does not know what to do next, he waits instead and takes in the sight of Celebrimbor.

The greatest difference is that this Curufinwë is _alive._ They never met before their deaths, Maeglin arriving at Halls several centuries before enraged members of Finwë's line dragged Celebrimbor's fëa to safety, afraid that Sauron would harm him further than he already had. Yet many had not known how to help the struggling, screaming Elf. Not all members of his house where still there to help him, some having already left the Halls.

Hence they brought him to Maeglin. Námo once recommended his skills and his efforts at keeping his mind unscathed from the damage Morgoth tried to inflict upon him. Most healed on their own and the Vala asked him to help the numerous victims when Maeglin showed no signs of leaving anytime soon.

Slightly short-breathed and with a dry mouth, Maeglin tries to reconcile the image of the broken Elf with the Elven Lord in front of him. Many of the re-embodied start out with an hröa of a young adult, not fully grown yet, to allow room for adjustments. A look in the mirror confirmed the procedure.

Personally, Maeglin is glad that he has lost the haunted look of his later years. The bitterness in his eyes, for once, is gone.

Celebrimbor appears as if he has never been better. Not like someone who had been held prisoner, tortured and starved for weeks. Instead the movements of the axe are practised, the smith swings it as if he never had doubts about using his hands ever again. A valid fear, back in Mandos, because Sauron took great delight in destroying them.

Whoever healed Celebrimbor made sure to include hand-eye coordination.

The axe comes down with a great _bang_ and wood splinters apart. Maeglin must have made a noise, for Celebrimbor finally notices his presence.

Their eyes meet across the yard and when Celebrimbor breaks out into a smile the sight steals whatever remains of Maeglin's ability to breathe. It's blinding, bright and full of unexpected happiness.

In his long memories Maeglin tries to determine when had been the last time anybody greeted him like this.

The attempt goes up in smoke when he has his arms fill with Fëanorian in the next moment.

He is engulfed by warmth, and softness presses against heated skin. While it made it a little uncomfortable before, all Maeglin can think of now is how much he has wanted to do this since the first time he laid eyes on Celebrimbor. What shocks him is his own desperate reaction.

It's not just Celebrimbor who wraps his arms around a long missed friend in a fierce embrace.

"You _came,"_ Celebrimbor whispers. Maeglin feels how hands dig deeper into his flesh, unwilling to let go. "You came. You said you would, but years turned into decades and I thought..."

Maeglin does not remember making such a promise. While he has a general sense of what happened in the halls, the actual transition is hazy. But deep in his bones he knows the truth.

"It took a while," he admits. His voice is hoarse and there are probably tears running down his face. "I had no intention of breaking my promise, but first there were a few patients others I wished to see off, then I decided to choose a successor and time passed before I realized I was stalling."

"I am glad you are here," Celebrimbor says. He breaks his tight hold on Maeglin to get a better look, but keeps his hands firmly on the his friend’s small shoulders. "Perhaps it is selfish, but I know what it had to cost you, leaving the one place where you felt at peace."

"I was no longer the same after you left. But I knew this since the moment I met you, otherwise I would not have made the promise."

For Maeglin it's a great relief that he can still read Celebrimbor underneath his new shell. Lord Námo warned him it would be different, for not many Elves possess his skills with oswanë and magic on top of it. In Celebrimbor, Maeglin hoped, he’d found his match, and the fact that they both choose to express themselves through their forges is a blessing on top of it.

"I feel unworthy of the sacrifice you made," Celebrimbor whispers and brings one hand to Maeglin's cheek. He touches it carefully, as if he is afraid to he will harm the flesh with a single touch alone. "But I am too selfish and too overjoyed to send you away with polite words and a friendly hug. Will you stay? I have everything you could possibly need around here."

The warmth rising in his chest feels like meeting the sun after a long, cold winter. Maeglin grins, then smiles freely. He barely comprehends what's happening. Despite still feeling too soft and vulnerable inside, drifting through a new world largely unknown to him, he never considers declining Celebrimbor's offer. The Fëanorian is too real beneath his hands, too warm under his fingers and too solid to let go.

"It would be an honour." Maeglin hopes his voice is steady when he accepts. If Celebrimbor senses the tremors that go through him, he does not mention it.

Curious, he tugs at a strand of Celebrimbor's red hair. It is not the shade of copper his uncle is so famous for. Rather, it is darker, more like aged wine.

"I was surprised as well," Celebrimbor comments on Maeglin's carefree combing and makes no move to stop him. "It used to look like that in my youth, but after we left Aman it continued to darken. By the time of my death it was thick and black like old lamp oil."

"There are rumours the state of the mind can have such effects. Among Men it happens that their hair turns white overnight if they go through shock and great grief." Maeglin recounts the tales of those wandering through the Halls. "Why should it not be possible for us?"

"Do you like it?" Celebrimbor's face goes a little hot.

It should be ridiculous. He has lived through wars and other terrifying hardships, where he shared close spaces with loyal warriors. Many who became friends or respected comrades. Yet a single comment from an Elf he technically never met face to face before today makes him prance like a yearling.

"It is a welcome change," Maeglin says. His gaze is sombre and far a way for a moment, but his eyes never leave Celebrimbor's.

 

-

 

A little further away Curufin is observing the encounter. At first he had no intention of spying on his son, no matter the disquieting comment from the stranger. He was still no closer to figuring out this one’s identity, but his curiosity had spiked after Telperinquar's enthusiastic reaction. The time after his child's return from Mandos had been turbulent. They were rebuilding their relationship and it is recent enough that they had not caught up with everything yet.

So it is entirely possible he missed a connection his son made in the past, a friendship perhaps he built after the First Age.

From the looks of it, this is no mere friendship though.

Curufin narrows his eyes and leans forwards a little. He cannot make out any details. The visitor is an Elf and a Noldor, judging by his features. Though his build is a bit smaller, he is not as tall as an Aman born Noldo would be. Not to mention he looks young, a fresh reborn spirit then.

"It looks like a young love." His wife joins him by the window. "Unrealized potential perhaps, but I have never seen Telperinquar admiring someone with such open regard."

“Nor I," Curufin says and means it as a promise to be careful with his words. He reaches for his wife's hand and smiles when she takes it.

One reason why he does not mind whoever Celebrimbor is about to fall in love with, is because he has his beloved wife by his side again. Strong and regal as she was before he lost her to dragon fire. Seeing her burn in front of him as they fled Himlad changed him, only the desire to get his son to safety had kept him from doing something stupid. It worked - for a while. Nargothrond had not been equipped to handle his grief.

It is difficult to say how the disastrous time would have turned out, had their family not been struggling with grief and being cut off from the more sensible members.

Right now Curufin is determined to be a better person than who he used to be at the end of his first life.

Together with his wife, he waits until Celebrimbor is ready to introduce the visitor.

 

-

 

Maeglin long thought how about he would introduce himself.

The mother name had been a treasure for Maeglin, a forbidden secret between him and his Nanaeth, for Eöl despised the language of the Noldor. Yet since his father waited twelve years to name his son that felt like a gift in and of itself. He had been unable to turn away from _Maeglin,_ even after what happened later. It did not help that they only called him _Lómion_ in Gondolin, never acknowledging Eöl's parentage unless it suited their politics.

It led to his few friends calling him _Targlîn_ behind closed doors, a nickname to help him feel better.

Unfortunately, it did not fit anymore, like a beloved tunic that is now old, torn, and ruined through carelessness. Even though he has had time enough to admit to himself that giving up Gondolin's location had been a result of torture and not his own wicked ambitions, it does not rewrite the history books. Or salve the memories of the people he betrayed.

In the end, he settles for the truth as he stands before Lord Curufin with Celebrimbor at his side.

"I am best known as Maeglin, once a Lord in Gondolin and the son of Eöl and Aredhel," he says and then repeats the introduction in Quenya.

"Ah, now I understand your little riddle," Lord Curufin says.

The situation is more comfortable than Maeglin imagined. They are outside, having retreated to a comfortable area with cushions on sturdy chairs. Lady Talaneth, beloved wife and mother, makes sure that there are no awkward silences.

"I apologize for suggesting a kinslaying," Maeglin says. “Yet there have been times when I tried to imagine how my life might have been had you stopped Eöl from following us."

Thankfully Lord Curufin does not appear to be offended. Rather, he seems to appreciate the honesty.

His own nature, though shaped by his upbringing, brought him into trouble quite often. Gondolin had not many people who understood the way Maeglin feels sometimes. Why he prefers some things to others and why he is not a sentimental creature. In Lord Curufin he recognizes a kindred spirit and he does not need extensive skills in oswanë to know that.

"There is little use of pondering the past with such questions. We all have experienced events that we wish had gone differently. I would rather express my welcome, for you are obviously a dear friend to my son," Celebrimbor's mother joins in. Maeglin finds that she is a lot like her husband. Quiet, strong and reserved.

He wonders how it is possible that such solemn people have produced a soul like Celebrimbor, who only beams and grins.

"I have told you of him before, mother," Celebrimbor says. "He is the reason why I walk among you these days, though I have always called him _Ecyanáro_ in my tales."

While Maeglin is still translating the unknown epessë in his head, the couple seems to know exactly what their son is talking about. In the next moment he is busy dealing with a woman moved to tears. Even Celebrimbor appears shocked as his mother throws her arms around Maeglin and hugs him tight. It's not a polite embrace.

These are deep, intense emotions the elleth is struggling with.

Old desperation bleeds through. The fear of a couple never to see their child again after it suffered at the hands of an old enemy. Even from Lord Curufin Maeglin gets flashes, though he is standing still an arm’s length away.

They are just as intense as his wife's.

Years upon years in Mandos have schooled Maeglin in shielding his thoughts, but with his recent return he is a little out of shape to keep in keeping emotions suppressed at close encounters. During his travels it had been easier, but the people he met meant little to him.

 _These_ two elves, on the other hand, are Celebrimbor's parents.

People who love him. Who had longed for his return and despaired it might never happen.

People who created Celebrimbor's beautiful soul and never faltered in their support of him, even when death and grief destroyed their personal happiness.

People who are so very unlike his own parents.

Maeglin takes a deep breath and drowns for a second time this day.

 

-

 

 

Maeglin comes back to himself on a bed. He is laying lying flat and before he opens his eyes, he knows it is Celebrimbor pressed against him. Two fingers stroke his forehead softly and Maeglin makes a small noise.

"Are you alright?" Celebrimbor sounds worried. His grey eyes are shining when they focus on him.

They are deep, beautiful, and once again Maeglin feels as if he is trapped between a hammer and an anvil. Only the sensation is even stronger than when they met. He wonders why this never happened in the Halls of Mandos. If this is why everyone inevitably leaves them one day.

"I think?" Maeglin mumbles. His limbs feel too heavy to move. "What happened?"

"You passed out. I knew you were skilled, but I was not aware of how extensive your skills in oswanë truly are." After a pause, Celebrimbor adds, "Father says you never _learned_ it, not like we had to."

"No, it is a natural state of my mind," Maeglin informs him and rubs his head.

He still feels dizzy, but if he is honest ~~than~~ Celebrimbor's warm body pressed against his is a far greater source of distraction. For he smells like herbal tea, the sour kind Maeglin always liked because it reminds him of his childhood in Nan Elmoth. There is also the heat radiating off his body and it’s as wondrous as the occasional bright sunbeam breaching the thick canopy of an old and ancient forest.

"I am sorry if we harmed you in any kind of way."

Celebrimbor sounds distraught.

Maeglin's breath catches in his throat. The words are more than he ever got from his uncle and his cousin.

"It will be fine. It is a side effect of having an hröa again. Being a fëa in Mandos was easier." Maeglin groans the last part and curls onto his side, not caring as he buries his face in Celebrimbor's chest. The darkness and the warmth help a little.

"Is that the reason why you never left? It took me a while to figure out who you were, exactly." Celebrimbor wants to know. More carefully he adds, the touch of his fingers never receding, "We worked through our guilt together. When you were not with me as I stumbled out of Mandos, I thought I had failed to convince you."

The confession and look of dismay on Celebrimbor's face are almost worse than his faint memories of Angband. Time and practice allowed them to fade away. A blessing of Lord Námo, he who keeps the images, the sounds, and the pain from crossing over once you step into your next life. Not even your subconsciousness can access them anymore.

Still, Maeglin's stomach does a horrible flip and he feels sick.

He tries to remember when he last felt having he had personally disappointed someone close to him.

His mind provides him with nothing.

Celebrimbor is still looking at him like that. Like in the beginning, when his spirit was a small, tangled mess, because a friend betrayed him and he questioned his existence for not having seen the truth.

"Telperinquar," Maeglin tries out the word and likes how the name rolls off his tongue. The spark behind Celebrimbor's eyes plays a significant part as well. "You are the _only_ reason why I left the Halls of Mandos. I had patients those I guided and companions before. I was always sad to see them go, but not a single one made me consider leaving the little corner I carved for myself. Only you."

With great effort Maeglin itches inches closer until he can let his forehead rest against Celebrimbor's shoulder, his aching limps limbs a side effect from of his mind dealing with the recent events and emotions that had not been his own until a few hours ago. Slowly he relaxes as he begins to match Telperinquar's breathing.

Who Celebrimbor brings up one hand and massages the back of Maeglin's head in slow circling circular motions.

It feels so good that Maeglin wants to weep.

Maybe he does, he is too worn out to tell and to comfortable to care.

He does not have the strength to tell Celebrimbor how afraid he has been for so long. How the Halls had not been the same after the Fëanorian departed, because he had family waiting for him.

Maeglin had not. One reason why he never considered moving on. There was no family to return to. Aredhel had never come to see him in all the time they had been in Mandos together. She moved on, coming to terms with the fact that her marriage to Eöl had been a mistake. With Eöl choosing to be a reborn, relinquishing all his painful memories for a fresh start, there was no reason to uphold a broken bond.

Aredhel was Irissë, a Princess of the Noldor once more, and she saw no reason to reconcile with a grown up man who had little in common with the child she had once given birth to.

It was is strange how he resents his mother more than he does his father, despite their respective roles as victim and monster.

Thankfully the connection that sparked between them in the Halls of Mandos still exists.

"Then I am just glad you are here," Celebrimbor whispers and his warm breath ghosts over Maeglin's lips.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The story doesn't the point where male relationships within elvish societies become the main focus, which was mostly a time factor. Not one of unwillingness, for the prompt was so incredibly awesome. But Maeglin came into the story with so many issues! I fear they don't all revolve around homophobia & love between two men. Though, in my opinion any problems Maeglin would have with others would be a symptom of his upbringing, a result of how he was treated in Gondolin and not because of the fact itself. I hope I managed to portray it by the way of his utter obviousness? 
> 
> I can't promise _when_ or _if_ I am reopening this fic, but there's definitely room for a second chapter. For some delicious smut alone the insanity would be worth it. Insanity because no doubt Fëanor would try to steal Fingolfin's grandson at some point.


End file.
